Bron-9

Contined from Chapter 8: Bron-8 | ABCtales

It was a dreamy, slightly misty, warm Friday morning. Bron leaned against the windowsill, watching the troop of Household Cavalry clip-clop their way down Great Cumberland Place, as they did most mornings. On the other windowsill, to the right Petouche - a recent addition to the Miller menage - paused briefly from her ablutions before continuing to lick the white paw on her coal-black left leg, already blase after 12 weeks in residence. Bron, by contrast, still had to metaphorically  pinch herself that she was living in the middle of London.

Petouche was by now far more interested in a guy everyone called the Milkman, who’d appear every day marshalling a train of four or five pilfered supermarket trolleys stuffed with his goods and chattels. Unlike many street dwellers, he didn’t seem to be an alcoholic; his tipple being a carton of milk – hence the name. Petouche would stretch herself out between the back of the sofa and the windowsill to gaze at him until the Milkman and his entourage disappeared down the street.

‘Look but don’t touch’ was Petouche’s watchword; a well-timed bite or scratch formed as much a part of her vocabulary as the usual feline lexicon of miaows, hisses and (very occasional) purrs. Petouche had tried to claw her way out of the cardboard box on the train on the way back to Victoria when Linda had picked her up from a newsagent’s shop in Purley Oaks. The name came to Linda in a flash of inspiration. She’d have to think of getting her spayed soon.

Linda joined Bron, resting her steaming mug of coffee on the window sill, which was open a couple of inches. She’d booked a rare day off work, so she could visit her elderly aunt in Sussex that afternoon. The last of the horsemen were disappearing down the street, leaving a trail of brown droppings on the tarmac. They steamed gently in the morning air.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it Bron? I mean, the horse, not the shit … ”

“Oh yeah. Where are they going, exactly?”

“Buckingham Palace? Changing of the Guard? Not sure exactly.”

“So, what do they do, exactly? Guard the Queen against the IRA?”

“I dunno … kind of, I guess…”

“Bit difficult, if you’re stuck in the air on a horse like that. I mean, what if someone threw a bomb at you; you’d have no chance, would you? Do they have guns?”

“Don’t think so; just those swords, I think. They’ve probably got SAS-type guys hidden behind pillars to do the real protection. It’s just symbolic … ceremonial. Like the Beefeaters at the Tower.”

“Did no one ever think to tell them to stop, that they weren’t needed any more?”

“Who? The horse guys or the Beefeaters?”

“Both. I mean, none of this stuff is necessary now, is it? Do you think someone maybe just … forgot? So it’s just carried on without anyone realising?”

“The tourists like to see it. Part of the culture, and all that.”

“You know, a strange thing about London, it’s the amount of … well, things that just happen for no reason. I mean, back in Llanfair, if I see Mr Prees moving his cows down the lane, I know that they’re going for milking. He wouldn’t just … move them about, on a whim, like. Knowwat  I mean?”

“Yes, I suppose you might be right. Speaking of which, have you ever seen those old ladies who come on Tuesday nights to the flat opposite?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve watched them. They’re playing cards, I think, poker…”

“Bridge, I’d imagine. But it’s strange, no one lives in that flat. They just seem to have it so they can get together and play, one night of the week. Then they all go home. Almost like a private club. They’re Jewish I think.”

“You sure? They don’t have those robe things on their heads.”

“You’re thinking of muslims, Bron.”

“How much would a flat like that cost, d’you think?”

“Search me. A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand?”

Bron whistled, softly. “Two hundred grand just to play cards once a week. Maybe, next time I see them, I’ll go across and ask them…”

“Oh…no…don’t do that. It’s more fun to keep it as a mystery, don’t you think? And, by way, do you know Madonna owns the house five doors down from us. Apparently, she’s never set foot in the place; had if for years … ” Linda broke off: “PETOUCHE!” she screamed.

Petouche gazed at them through the window glass with a look of studied innocence, several feet above the roaring, honking traffic, having managed to jump the six feet from one windowsill to the other from a standing start. Linda levered the sash window up with trembling hands grabbed her and brought her inside the flat.

Picture credit: Graceful Black Cat Painting | AI Art Generator | Easy-Peasy.AI

To be continued in Chapter 10